The Bitter Angel of East Side Drive
by Betz88
Summary: A sideways look at Maggie, a goofy old lady spying on a handsome piano playing stranger who lives across the street. Then one day disaster strikes, and Maggie has no rest in her butt until she is in the middle of it. Oh boy, will she be surprised!
1. Chapter 1

"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"

Betz88

- Chapter 1 -

"He Looked the Most Like a 'Paul'"

Maggie awoke with a start at 5:00 a.m. That in itself should have told her it was going to be a strange day. She knew better than to try to go back to sleep. It wasn't gonna happen. It wasn't a dream that pulled her out of a sound sleep, for there were no tiny

remnants dancing in her head that told her something strange and interesting had been cavorting there.

A sound from the street? Not possible. Her hearing wasn't all that keen anymore, so it was a subject best relegated to that special place in her mind that she often referred to as: _Nevermind, Maggie! _

Her expensive hearing aids were dumped carelessly in the drawer of her telephone table in the kitchen. She seldom wore them at home unless she needed to make a call. Telephones were not high on her list of priorities anyway. Come to think of it, she no longer _had_ a list of priorities.

Maggie got out of bed with a bit of effort, drew on a bathrobe and padded softly down the hallway. She turned on a light and set a kettle of water to heat on the stove. Dropped two slices of toast and waited for them to pop. It wasn't even daylight yet, and it would be another hour before the sky to the east would begin to lift its curtain on the day.

She buttered her toast and poured her coffee and walked into the living room where her La-Z-Boy stood behind the draperies facing the picture window. She plopped down with a sigh.

The street below was already buzzing with traffic; headlights piercing the fog like long arms reaching into the mist. Early risers from outlying areas were heading along the thoroughfares to begin the early shift in the city. Trailer trucks with throaty air horns, barely discernable to her aging ears, were getting a head start on deliveries to warehouses across the river. Newspaper vans rumbled slowly along, dropping off their string-tied bundles on street corner after street corner.

Maggie lifted her eyes from the street and looked around the rest of the darkened neighborhood. There were a few lights on here and there in the apartment complex across the way. It was a huge building, almost twice the size of this one, almost twice as prestigious, more than twice as expensive. The Gateway Complex at 341 East Side Drive still had that "just-built" look of clean, white concrete, tinted glass and stainless steel. Its contractor had not taken into consideration that the enormous bay windows in the living areas of every unit provided a bird's eye view to inquisitive souls across the street. Some tenants put up heavy, thick draperies for privacy, but most did not.

Margaret Kincannon, recently retired, had discovered a fascinating pastime one frigid afternoon, not long ago. It was during the coldest part of the winter, and she was standing in her new apartment, hanging her new draperies and looking out the window at the neighborhood. She had taken a moment's pause to glance at the building across the street.

It was like looking into the back of a dollhouse … the open part where every aspect of the dolls' lives could be viewed like fish in an aquarium. She found herself staring.

Maggie smiled, suddenly fascinated as she watched the tiny fantasy people moving around in their tiny glass rectangles. In that instant a whole new world opened up. Human beings were interesting creatures, and here was a whole miniature community, playing out their miniature dramas in front of her eyes. Her former lonely existence of boredom and silence opened like a rose bud, blossoming into a most welcome adventure of delight, discovery and fantasy.

Maggie began to look forward to each day with an enthusiasm she had not realized in years. Her imagination began to bloom also, and she allowed it free reign.

She was on her second cup of coffee when she saw Paul in Apartment Eight move slowly from the black hole of his bedroom into the dimly lit cavern of his living area. Ordinarily he would not be out there so early, but she already knew this was not an ordinary day. He was still in pajamas and bathrobe. He was a man of unpredictable nocturnal pursuits; up early one day, still PJ clad at noon on others. She had seen him fully dressed as early as 6:00 a.m., and as late as midnight or even later. Sometimes in the middle of the night when she could not sleep and looked for a diversion, she would see him pacing over there, moving rapidly with a labored gait. Perhaps he could not sleep either.

Perhaps he was taking today off. Everyone deserved a day off now and then, didn't they?

As she watched, Paul stood motionless a few feet back from his big window. He was, as usual, unshaven. His dark shining hair lay in wild disarray. He was half leaning against the back of a dark leather chair on a half-bent elbow, staring into the distance, into space, looking almost wistful. Wistful and lonely and sad. She wondered what might be going on in his mind.

Of all the tenants at Gateway, Paul was her favorite. She liked Fancy Nancy too, and the Athertons, especially Scooter. But Paul was by far the most fascinating and the most mysterious. Fancy Nancy was a young, dark-haired beauty, and obviously wealthy. Her chic wardrobe and expensive jewelry almost seemed to define her as a person, and she was fun to watch as she posed like a trollop in front of the full-length mirror on the wall next to the entrance to her apartment.

Paul, however, had no mirrors other than a small decorative oval to the left of his front door. His place was plain and austere and refined. Built-in bookcases lined two walls, and stacks of books and magazines were everywhere. His heavy, brown leather furniture … and what looked like mahogany sidepieces topped with brushed-steel lamps … added further subdued elegance. Maggie was certain he was a professional man, as casually elegant as his surroundings. He dressed recklessly, most often in loose blue jeans with a casual sports jacket and sometimes an open-necked pastel shirt to offset the darker attire.

Maggie had spent thoughtful hours choosing names for her Gateway tenants. Careful observation from behind her draperies let her watch their comings and goings without becoming intrusive. At the same time she could gauge their habits and match their fantasy personas with their physical appearance and their particular mannerisms.

The man in her thoughts now was handsome in a strange way; the kind of handsome that seems to grow and spread with mounting familiarity. He was slender, and sometimes graceful without seeming haughty or autocratic. He had … possibly … a nice smile, but she'd seen it rarely. He was tall, but from this distance even her high-powered binoculars could not discern exactly _how_ tall. He had a sharply defined face beneath the silvered scruff: thin lips, high cheekbones, regal nose and stern brow. His most redeeming features, Maggie believed, were the amazingly large, azure-blue eyes that dominated his face like beacons.

And yet, there was a sense of melancholy that clung to him, a guarded veil of sadness that seemed to radiate from deep within his soul. There was an aura of fathomless regret and quiet mourning, as though he had lost something very important in his life, and had not yet recovered. He spent most of his time in solitude, it seemed. Aloof and isolated, like a single grain of sand among billions on a beach, a lonely blade of grass on a hillside, one solemn face in the center of a happy multitude. A man alone in a crowd.

In this regard, Maggie thought, they were kindred spirits. She had lost something very important too.

She had watched him a long time before she finally graced him with a name. She'd narrowed the choices meticulously: Charles? Roger? Vincent? Edward? At last he had become, for her: "Paul" … because he looked the most like a "Paul"!

Eventually she discovered that he did indeed have a friend who stopped by once in awhile; a handsome, auburn-haired young man she quickly named "Richard". That one had been easy … but that was a whole other story.

By 8:00 a.m. the city was wide-awake and bustling with activity. East Side Drive, and a block north, Cranston Avenue, both of which fed into the main artery, were clogged with expensive cars, fancy pickup trucks and SUVs. Princeton's white-collar workers were all hell-bent on getting behind their desks by nine.

As Maggie peered across the street, she smiled to herself at the hurrying and scurrying going on in Fancy Nancy's apartment, one unit below Paul's. The girl wasn't going to make it to work on time. Not today. She was already running late with her primping, and the array of fashionable clothing piled on her beautiful oak credenza attested to her inability to make up her mind about what to wear.

She was a pretty kid, dark and slender, deep brown eyes and an impish smile, mid thirties and supremely gifted. She owned and operated an art gallery somewhere in Plainsboro, Maggie had heard. Nancy's stylistic work on display there was rumored to bring prices in the thousands.

But she was a material girl. Nancy's bangly-dangly earrings and other glittery googahs which adorned her person, tweaked Maggie's mind with silly images of a walking Christmas tree. She imagined that every time the girl moved, she jingled or tinkled or blinged. Maggie couldn't hear the sounds anyplace except inside her head, but they were certainly loud enough in there.

Finally Nancy pulled herself together and looked to be about ready to leave. She picked up a huge shoulder bag from the floor at her feet and draped it across her back like a sack of potatoes. She threw open her apartment door and stumbled into the hallway. It took two separate tries to finally get the door pulled closed behind her.

Maggie smiled again. The slam of Nancy's door had actually lifted a corner of the wall mirror. On the credenza across the room, sympathetic vibrations slowly dislodged a pile of slinky garments from the edge of the shelf. One by one, they undulated off the pile and slid down the front of the credenza to finally settle onto a glitzy heap on the floor. At last, only one beautiful blouse lay alone on the shelf with a long sleeve hanging down. Then, slowly, it too poured itself off the edge like molasses from a jar and joined its companions, thread by thread, on the deep ivory carpeting.

About the same time the pile settled onto the floor, Nancy's canary yellow RX8 pulled out of the underground garage and turned onto the street that led to Plainsboro.

At 9:15 a.m. Maggie finally swallowed the last dregs of her coffee.

_Blick!_

Cold.

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5


	2. Chapter 2

"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"

- Chapter 2 -

"Something is Wrong!"

By ten o'clock the sky opened and let down the rain and the wind and the lightning. Tumbling cascades of excited water painted rainbow images on every windowpane in Maggie's apartment. Unhurriedly she turned from her guardian duties and went to the hallway closet for her vacuum cleaner and dust rag.

The remainder of the morning she puttered around with a bit of sweeping up the carpet, a bit of dishwashing, and a dab of light dusting. By noon the chores ran out, the wind died down, and rain continued to dance merrily down the gutters in a steady ballet. She did not return to the chair right away, but heated a can of chicken noodle soup and cleaned up meticulously afterward. She went to the bathroom, took care of urgent business, and immediately washed her hands. There!

Now she was ready to go back to the window and the recliner to check on Paul. Had he simply taken the day off from work? Or was he not feeling well, and stayed home to recuperate? Perhaps his back was bothering him … if indeed his lameness was caused

by a problem with his back. She had been thinking about that …

There were no lights on in the apartment across the street. Neither could Maggie detect any movement. Normally, darkness did not hinder the view, for the streetlights outside gave enough illumination to at least throw interesting objects into silhouette. Now, however, the falling rain obscured everything she might easily have noticed on a day with more sunshine. Today, Paul's apartment seemed dark, abandoned and unnaturally still. He was not there.

Maggie was relieved. It meant he was all right. He was very likely out somewhere dodging the raindrops and enjoying his time off … or perhaps experiencing a pleasant diversion with his friend Richard.

Maggie sighed with relief and turned on the TV. There was a documentary about the Valley of the Kings on the History Channel. She lifted the handle on the recliner, tilting it back as far as it would go, and settled down to watch.

It was nearly 2:00 p.m. when Maggie Kincannon next opened her eyes. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast. The History Channel had switched to an armchair tour of the Arizona Memorial in Hawaii. The program's narrator … sounded a lot like Edward Hermann … was lamenting that the old ship just below the surface of the harbor was slowly disintegrating beneath the ravages of time. She decided she didn't really need to hear about that; it seemed depressing somehow. She clicked the set off. There was nothing good on TV in the afternoons anyhow, and she wasn't much for soap operas.

Maggie levered slowly out of the chair and made her way to the bathroom. Her knees and hips were stiff with osteo-arthritis, and it took a minute for her to loosen up enough to stop limping.

Back in the kitchen she grabbed two Pecan Sandies from the cookie jar and munched on one of them. She poured a glass of milk and then went back to the recliner. Paul's place was still dim, but the small lamp he kept on his piano was turned to a low setting, and its glow lifted some of the gloom. He'd come home then, while she slept, but she still didn't see him anywhere. He must be in the bath, one of the bedrooms, or the kitchen.

Something blurred and indistinct lay on the floor next to the couch, but without the binoculars she could not tell what it was. She drained the glass of milk, set it on the sill and picked cookie crumbs from the front of her shirt. Idly, she picked up the glasses, adjusted the focus and aimed at the pile of … whatever. A blanket, two bed pillows and a couch pillow. That was curious. Other than stacks of books and magazines scattered about, he was generally neat.

Somewhere in her peripheral vision, the binocular lenses picked up the glint of motion to the left and she moved her head in that direction. Paul was emerging from the kitchen with a glass of something in his left hand. Fizzy stuff. Ginger ale? Sprite? She continued to watch him, clinically now, brow furrowing with puzzlement.

Something was wrong, and suddenly Maggie saw again the labored gait. As he walked slowly with effort out of the dimness and into the light, she saw that he was still in PJs and bathrobe. When he skirted the piano to continue across to the couch, he trailed his fingers along its sounding board in a struggle to steady himself.

The glass in his other hand wobbled a little, and a few drops spilled onto the floor. He let go of the piano and hobbled the rest of the way to the couch. Leaned his free hand on its narrow arm and slowly lowered himself down. She could see all of him now. His narrow shoulders were slumped, head down, body bowed forward. In the experienced observations of an old nurse, the man was definitely in pain.

Was it his back? Or was it something else?

So! He had indeed been ill and off work. He'd hurt himself somehow and spent the better part of the day on the couch where the lack of light and the falling rain made it too dim to see him. She watched him switch the drink to his right hand, take a swallow and set the glass on the coffee table. She could tell he had medication in his hand, and he tipped his head back to swallow it dry. Then he leaned slowly sideways, and Maggie saw him lift his right leg onto the couch manually until he lay curled on his left side across the cushions. One of the bed pillows from the floor found its way beneath his knee.

Shortly his TV flicked on, its picture glowing anonymously in the gloom. After that, she did not see him move again for the rest of the evening.

So it wasn't his back. He had injured his knee. Or his leg. Either of those things could cause him to lift the limb with both hands.

Maggie sat back in the recliner, inattentive of her surroundings, contemplating this obsession of hers to be bothered keenly about the well being of a man she had never met, and probably never would.

What _was _it about this mysterious stranger that had drawn her in so deeply?

He was attractive, it was true, and the aura that surrounded his person exuded a strange vulnerability that she still did not understand. He was young enough to be her son, perhaps even her grandson if she ever got the opportunity to see his face up close. That would probably never happen though, for Maggie always vowed to maintain a safe distance, lest it spoil the illusion.

But it bothered her greatly that he was unwell.

Maggie let her head lean backward and allowed the recliner to go back also.

Frowning a bit in concentration, Maggie let her mind wander back to the first time she had seen "Paul" …

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	3. Chapter 3

"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"

- Chapter 3 -

"Living the Fantasy Life"

When Maggie Kincannon's intriguing fantasy life first took root, she had been a brand new tenant at 318 East Side Drive. It was an older building, but elegant, built pre-war in the late 1930s. It was perfect for her needs due to its convenient access to bus routes and easy approach to downtown shopping centers. Maggie had given up her driver's license when she moved in, due to the hearing failure, and she did not feel confident behind the wheel anymore.

She definitely did not want to have to go to a high rise for the elderly because she did not think of herself as elderly. She'd had more than enough of "elderly" while still employed as a long-time nursing supervisor on a geriatric unit.

Maybe someday when she began to see herself in a different light, it would be a different story. But not yet! She had very few wrinkles because she had generously allowed her body to expand until it fit into her skin very well. Thank you! Her favorite word to describe herself was "mature". These days, as a recent retiree, there were too many things still to see, too many places left to go, and too many years spent on the fifth floor of Polyclinic Hospital in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Maggie was alone now. Dear Arthur had departed with the angels one night without even saying goodbye, and she missed him every hour of every day. They had opted for careers rather than family, and there were no children left behind to console her. Their love had been deep and lasting, and his absence was an ache in her heart that never went away. Much like the ache she had seen in the face of that troubled, elegant man in the apartment over at Gateway.

Paul's face reminded her of _her_ face … every time she looked in the mirror.

Maggie had wanted very much to stay in the Harrisburg house, but after a time she found that Arthur's memory lingered too deeply. Every shadowy corner and every billowed curtain whispered his name. She heard his gentle laughter every time she saw a nail hole he'd pounded awkwardly into the wall, or when he stepped on another creaky floorboard, teasing her like a child running fingernails down a blackboard. Every day she found it more and more difficult, if not impossible, to remain there if she wanted to keep her sanity.

An ad in a national magazine sold the house quickly and lured her to Princeton, New Jersey. The rest was history.

It was the middle of March then, and she was still getting things put away in her new apartment, Number 26, when she stopped to take a breather and a drink of something cold. She'd pulled one of the stray kitchen chairs over in front of her living room window and sat down with a sigh to drink a diet Pepsi and see what was to be seen of the new neighborhood.

At that time of the year, not much! It was a drab season, and even the movement of traffic in the street two floors below seemed bored and early afternoon sluggish. She cast her gaze in a circle; taking in the limited vista afforded by the restrictions of the window's view. She contemplated some of the other buildings in the area. Most of them were condominiums or high rises like this one. It was a predominantly middle-class residential neighborhood, rather than commercial. The common bustle of a business district atmosphere was further down, toward the center of town.

She brought her attention back to her own block and looked over to the modern complex across the street. Luxury apartments, each with a large bay window in its living area, pulled her gaze to the things she could easily see inside if she looked in the right direction and positioned herself properly in the chair. She could see people moving about in some of them; people going about their daily lives: cooking, cleaning, carrying on animated conversations with one another, oblivious to the curious old woman spying on them, wide-eyed, from just across the street.

A flicker of something stirring in close proximity to the glare of reflection in the early afternoon light drew Maggie's attention to the apartment nearest the center of the building. She squinted for a clearer view and looked closer. There was a man with his back turned to her. Dark tee shirt. He was seated. Slender body, wiry chestnut hair with silver threads running through it. His arms, firm and sinewy, moved outward and away from his body, and then back; spread outward again and back against his body and out and back over and over. It looked almost as though he might be playing with a ball on a table before him, bouncing it back and forth from hand to hand.

Then he shifted slightly and Maggie saw the expanse of black and white keyboard, and she understood. He was playing a piano … a beautiful, dark, shining baby grand piano. Motionless, she continued to watch his graceful movements. Oh how she wished she were able to hear his music …

Presently he finished what he'd been playing and turned about on the bench, facing slightly in her direction. He could not see her, for the sunlight was full in his eyes. The bluest eyes she had ever seen. She saw him reach for something on the sounding board, and push carefully to his feet then. He moved slowly to the big window and looked out across the city, leaning into the window frame, his face turned into the brilliance of the sun. Just standing there. There was a glass of something amber in his left hand.

Maggie got out of the chair and went to one of the open packing boxes that still lined the edges of her living room. The old binoculars were in one of them somewhere. She rummaged through two or three of the big boxes, and finally found the expensive glasses nested along the side of one of them. High-powered things. They had been Arthur's. She didn't know why she'd kept them, but at that moment she was glad she had. She trained them, guardedly at first, on Apartment Eight across the street. Her mysterious neighbor was still at his window, and now she could make out most of his face.

Maggie saw the vulnerability first. Then the intelligence. He was classically handsome in a strange way. But tragic somehow. Her scrutiny turned bolder. Fascinated.

Finally she saw the pain. Deeply etched … a sorrow filtering down from the ages …

Who … was he?

Maggie's life would never be the same. She would never be lonely again. She had a "family" … right across the street!

"Paul" was the first to whom she gave a name.

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	4. Chapter 4

"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"

- Chapter 4 -

"Scooter"

One floor above Paul's apartment lived a family that Maggie called "The Athertons".

"John" and "Mary" were pretty much humdrum. Uninteresting. Like lily pads on a pond, you could only pay attention to them when there was a frog sitting there. Maggie did not bother with them much. But they did have a frog among the lily pads! A child, a boy six or seven years old. Maggie called him "Scooter", because that's what he did. He scooted. Never still for more than seconds at a time, he was a happy-go-lucky little kid with a sparkling smile, beautiful blue eyes and hair as black as a raven's wing.

Scooter was always rumpled; shirttail hanging out one side or the other, trousers, or jeans hitched in an uneven way that made him appear as though he were walking sideways. It drove Maggie crazy. Both shoes were never tied at the same time, and she resisted a constant urge to buy him cowboy boots. Scooter couldn't have cared less, one way or another.

The boy's main mission in life, it sometimes seemed, was to annoy as many people at the same time as he possibly could. He was good at it. After school he would hang around the entrance to Gateway Complex with two or three of his small friends and make life miserable for everyone who walked by.

People with dogs on leashes were the favorite game. The boys would jump out and growl menacingly. If it was a small dog, the creature would always wrap itself around its owner's legs, and its mouth would crank open and closed like a pair of electric scissors, obviously peppering the area with furious small-dog yaps.

Large dogs could be counted on to act much the same way, except for the larger jaws with corresponding larger lungpower. Some of them also lunged at the ends of their leashes, dragging an angry owner forward like an ocean liner behind a tugboat.

All this skullduggery gave the boys feelings of power and control. They would run happily down the street, war-whooping around the corner, faces triumphant with "one-upmanship". There they would squat safely out of sight behind a row of garbage cans and laugh and smirk behind their hands and congratulate themselves for being extremely clever.

Scooter and his pals would eat granola bars and potato chips and toss the wrappers in the street. They would chug soda pop and fling the empty cans at the metal mailbox on the corner or the large public trash can nearby, just to hear the noise and startle those who happened to be in the vicinity.

Maggie would watch them and shake her head sadly at their childish disrespect. Someone ought to give them a stern talking to. One of their fathers needed to show up at just the right moment. Either their parents didn't know of their shenanigans, or they didn't care. Maggie hoped it was the former rather than the latter, but these days one never knew.

It all came to a head one day while three of the boys were dawdling out front. They were laughing and giggling and cuffing one another in jest, until one of them went too far and thrust an elbow into Scooter's face, giving him a bloody nose. After that, a fight ensued in which three small bodies butted and elbowed and hammered back and forth at each other. Arms flailed, feet kicked, clothing shreds flew, and a pile of annoying children churned about in a squealing ball of fury in the middle of the sidewalk.

Suddenly two of them found themselves being lifted bodily, dangling their feet just off the pavement, held impotently aloft by the iron fingers of strong adult male hands. They also found themselves flailing at nothing but empty air. The third boy sat on the sidewalk, slack-jawed, and stared upward into intense, angry male eyes.

The man holding them like puppies by the scruffs of their necks showed no inclination toward letting them go, shouting meanwhile about their absence of manners and respect. The kid on the sidewalk looked back and forth from his friends' dilemma to the two powerful arms, and did the most logical thing he could think of. He scrambled to his feet and ran.

After that, the giant's hands lowered slowly to his sides, and two stretched-out-of-shape collars snapped back against two scrawny necks. Scooter and his remaining friend, both slightly bloodied, regained their footing on the sidewalk.

They were very quiet beneath the scrutiny of the tall presence that still towered over them, and awed by the ease with which they'd been throttled. They stood riveted in place by the stern countenance of the man who held them hostage.

Words were being exchanged, finally, most of them from the older to the younger. There was no argument, but a lot of: "Yessirs" and vigorous nodding. A long finger pointed at the curb, then back to the discarded soda cans and potato chip wrappers in front of the steps and the wheelchair ramp by the side of the front entrance.

Smiling to herself, Maggie Kincannon would have given an entire month's pension check to be able to hear what Paul was saying. It was clear that he was very angry.

When he finally stopped yelling and started pointing, the two boys hurried to pick up the mess they had made on the sidewalk. It took two trips with arms loaded to finally deposit all their junk in the trashcan.

Only then did the stern expression leave Paul's face. It was the first time Maggie had really seen him smile. His head tilted back and his entire face seemed to open like the pages of a children's picture book. That was also the first time she saw the deep dimples that furrowed his cheeks. At that moment, she was very glad she had come to "know" this strange man she called "Paul". He had a thing for kids, and that pleased her very much.

Paul lowered his lanky body slowly to sit on the building's front stoop. He stretched his long legs before him carefully and motioned for the boys to approach. They came forward as he directed; cautiously, heads down, faces unreadable.

Paul spoke to both of them, using many hand gestures and a repertoire of goofy clown faces. He seemed animated and happy; no trace of the melancholy figure he presented in his own apartment. Both boys listened, she thought, _almost _respectfully. They even contributed to the conversation from time to time.

_Wow!_

Presently they both sat down also, one on each side of him, and the conversation continued for another ten minutes. At that time, Paul pushed himself slowly to his feet and turned to go inside. Maggie saw him reach across to the entrance railing to retrieve something she'd seen him place there earlier, but hadn't paid too much attention.

Even now, Maggie could not be sure exactly what happened next. The boys were ready to part, one of them on his way up the street toward home, and Scooter directly in front of Paul as they began an ascent of the ramp to enter the front door of Gateway.

The way she remembered it was, the second boy reached out to give Scooter a friendly parting shove, the way boys tend to do. Instead he caused his friend to trip over something and fall, head and shoulders hard against the front of Paul's legs.

Paul cried out, obviously, and Maggie saw a mask of pain contort his face as he went down in a heap. Scooter went down also, full on top of him, but rolled onto his back with a grunt, scrambled to his feet and shouted something to the other boy who was already out of sight up the street. So he turned back to Paul, starting to laugh at the way they'd landed awkwardly in the half-opened doorway of the big apartment building.

Paul, however, was not laughing. His face was still twisted in pain and it was obvious he was unable to gather his legs beneath him. Both hands had his right thigh in a death grip. Scooter stood staring, unsure what to do. Then he turned and ran inside.

Moments later, two large men were on the landing, reaching beneath Paul's shoulders, helping him to stand, supporting from either side and assisting as he limped painfully inside. He was putting precious little weight on his right foot …

Maggie gasped.

_Oh no!_

Scooter followed the strange procession inside. In his hands was the object Paul had been reaching for against the outside railing.

It was a cane … the stout kind that a man with a chronic disability might use …

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	5. Chapter 5

"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"

- Chapter 5 -

"Where Has My Hero Gone?"

Within the hour, "Richard" arrived. Such a lovely boy. Face like an angel, eyes like melted chocolate. Someone must have called him. He entered Paul's apartment in a flurry of swirling coattails and open-mouthed alarm. Scooter sat on the couch, close by the side of his new-found friend, one small hand on Paul's arm, his face tear-streaked and pale.

The two men who had helped Paul back to his apartment stood nearby and spoke with Richard for a few minutes. Then they left. Richard touched Paul's face gently with the backs of his hands, and the other man acknowledged his presence only slightly.

Richard walked across the room and sat down in a chair, beckoning Scooter to come to him. They must know each other! The boy did so, and Richard put an arm around the child's shoulder and spoke to him briefly. After that, Richard ruffled the boy's hair affectionately and walked him to the door. Scooter had stopped crying, but he still looked worried. After another few seconds, Richard said something else and smiled in what looked like reassurance. Richard held the door open, and after a look back toward Paul, Scooter left reluctantly.

Richard returned to Paul's side immediately, threw off his overcoat and just sat close with his right shoulder pressing lightly against the taller man's left shoulder. They were talking quietly, but Maggie had no idea what they might have been saying. She held the binoculars tightly to her eyes and watched unabashedly, worriedly, hoping against hope that Paul was all right. His right hand worried constantly at a spot above the knee of his right leg. Richard offered him some of the medication she'd seen him take before with a glass of water, and Paul took it quickly. She could not see it well enough to tell what it was.

After a time, Richard stood up again and held out a supporting hand to Paul, who seemed to consider for a moment before grasping the cane in his right hand and placed the left one on Richard's steadying arm. In this manner they moved slowly and painfully into the bedroom's black hole together. Maggie saw a light come on.

Paul was _not_ all right!

Richard was still there when Maggie went to bed. She was glad Paul was being looked after by such a caring friend. She wondered if their friendship went deeper than what appeared on the surface …

It was none of her business. Maggie let it go and went to sleep.

The next morning, Paul's apartment was shut down. All the lights were turned off, everything neat and in place. Books put away on the bookshelves, magazines stacked.

No drinking glasses sat around. The lid was down over the keyboard of the piano.

For an entire week the unit was deserted. No one went there. No one left there. The piano sat silent and lonely. It was like a concert hall suddenly abandoned by all the orchestras and all the choirs …

Scooter Atherton could be seen from time to time in the evenings, at the bay window of his parents' apartment, gazing down into the street. Hanging out. The youngster had finally found a reason to stand still for a change.

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In the meantime, Maggie had things to do and places to go. Her Social Security check and monthly pension could be credited to her account by now, and all her monthly errands lay waiting. She sat at the kitchen table and wrote out the rent check. She still needed to go to the bank, the post office, the drug store, and maybe Target. Definitely the supermarket. She got up from the table and pushed the chair against it.

The bus would pass by out front in ten minutes or so. If she hurried, she could catch it on its way into town, do all her errands and take a taxi home within about two hours. She glanced across to Paul's apartment, but without the binoculars she couldn't see much. It was still dark, and she missed him. She hoped he was somewhere being cared for by friends.

Maggie had been gone longer than she'd planned, but it had turned into a pleasant afternoon. Lunch at TGI Friday gave her a nice diversion after browsing at Target and picking up a few toiletries. She lingered over a second iced tea and took time to peruse the latest Lee Child novel to come out in paperback.

After that, the supermarket had been her last stop, and Maggie tipped the taxi driver generously for moving her groceries out of his trunk and into the elevator of her building. From there it was only a few feet to her front door. It took her about fifteen minutes to put everything away in the kitchen and store the toiletries in the bathroom.

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He came home on April Fools Day.

On crutches. Moving gingerly.

Richard, of course, was with him, no further away than his elbow.

They were accompanied by an attractive older woman. Paul's mother. Of course. Same blazing blue eyes. Same dimples. Lighter hair. Probably tinted.

Maggie named her "Ruth".

They wanted him to go to the bedroom. Maggie could see they were arguing with him. Concerned. He did not want to listen. Kept arguing back.

Richard was upset. His beautiful dark eyes were throwing sparks. At first Maggie thought it was anger. She could see his face as he spoke. Persuading. She caught the word "bed" more than once.

Paul kept shaking his head … "no".

At that moment she knew it wasn't anger. It was love.

Finally Ruth turned on her heel and left them, still at odds with one another, and disappeared into the black hole. She returned in a few minutes with an armful of bed pillows and a large comforter.

When all was said and done, they settled him on the couch, two pillows at his back and another beneath his right leg; the same leg Scooter had stumbled into downstairs the week before.

Maggie thought about that small accident awhile, and about the cane she had seen later. Paul's injury probably hadn't had much to do with the boy bumping into him the way it had happened. Whatever was wrong with his leg had been wrong before. Permanent, and an ongoing problem for some time. He was crippled. She could not understand why she had not picked up on it before. It should have been obvious … and she a nurse!

My God! She was slipping!

That evening, Maggie poured a diet Pepsi into a glass filled with ice, turned out the lights and went in to relax in the recliner.

Over in Paul's apartment the lights were dimmed also from the intensity she'd seen earlier, and there was no movement, only the flickering image from the TV, which reflected off the surface of the highly polished piano.

Ruth was not present. She must have left and gone back to wherever "home" was. Maggie picked up the binoculars and trained them on the opposite side of the room.

Paul and Richard were both there, and she could not help but smile at the way they were positioned. Richard sat with his back tight against the furthest arm of the couch, his right leg bent and propped against the backrest. He was in his bare feet and stripped down to cutoff jeans and an old dress shirt.

Paul was clad only in tee shirt and sweat pants. His left side lay tight against Richard's right side, his head nestled into the hollow spot between Richard's shoulder and the base of his jawline. His eyes were a little glittery with residual pain, but his face reflected total contentment. He held a small pillow against his chest and both hands lay relaxed around it. Paul's feet were also bare, the injured leg still propped up with what looked like a heating pad. His opposite leg lay entwined with Richard's at the edge of the cushion. Richard stared off dreamily into space. His right hand moved gently up and down across Paul's back, fingers trailing over his shoulder blades and down his spine.

In spite of herself, Maggie felt her eyes begin to sting and then fill with tears. She'd wondered briefly about their devotion to one another, and now she was sure. She knew she was trespassing on something beautiful and very private. She had no right to intrude on their intimacy and affection. Since they did not live together, they probably got very little of either.

Maggie replaced the binoculars on the windowsill and leaned back in the chair. Memories of Arthur flooded into her consciousness. They had often lain together in much the same way as those boys were doing now. Their marriage had been long and loving, and suddenly she mourned him as she had mourned him from the day he died.

Tears continued to run down her cheeks, and she did not check them. Instead, she let the thoughts of her husband take free reign in her consciousness. After awhile, she began to feel giddy, lighthearted and illogically enchanted.

The scene she'd just witnessed between the two young men was personal, and absolutely none of her business.

Maggie went to bed a little early that night and slept the sleep of the innocent … although that concept was a little bit of a contradiction in terms for a delighted old voyeur …

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19


	6. Chapter 6

"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"

- Chapter 6 -

"Giving Her Boys a Break"

In the weeks that followed, Maggie watched Paul's apartment a little less, especially

while Richard was there and they were alone together. When Richard was away at

work somewhere during the day, it was Ruth who stayed close to her son's side. During those times, Maggie felt free to intrude a bit. In fact, she kept a watchful nurse's eye on his recovery process and was pleased to note that on his second week at home, Paul began to wean himself off the crutches, one halting step at a time.

It could not have been easy for him, working through the pain she could still see on his gaunt face, having to pause and rest every few minutes. In the early afternoons he would disappear into the bedroom, presumably to rest and renew his strength before being able to resume his constant need to push.

Ruth doted lovingly on her son, while he seemed to rant at her to slow down and take a break. His face assumed a look of exasperation at these times, although the light in his eyes said otherwise. He just was not sure how to say "thank you". Maggie took note that the woman did not seem to intrude on his privacy, or press him into attempting more than he could handle. But she was always there when he needed her, and content to remain in the background when he didn't. She kept him fed and his laundry caught up. Gradually he began to play his piano again.

Maggie watched with a smile on her face and a wish in her heart to be able to hear him play …

Richard always arrived toward evening, and sometimes they would eat their evening meal out somewhere. Paul always used the crutches during these occasions, at Richard's insistence, obviously, but by the end of the third week he was back to the cane full time. Judging from his movements, he was still sore, but improving a little more each day.

His cane was made from a dark wood of some kind, and difficult to see when all the lights were not on. Maggie had to forgive herself a little for not noticing before how completely he had to depend on it as an aid in getting around. Without the thing, his mobility was almost completely shot.

Monday morning of the fourth week, Paul appeared in his living room fully dressed at 7:00 a.m., and Maggie knew he was finally ready to return to work. Richard arrived at 7:15, obviously to drive him there. He was smiling and talkative, and Paul, in turn listened to his friend's ramblings patiently, rolling his eyes behind Richard's back and insinuating (probably) some wisecrack here and there, while the handsome brown-eyed man made a conscious effort not to hover like an anxious bumble bee.

She saw them leave in Richard's sedate Volvo sedan and turn in the direction of downtown Princeton. She wondered if they might also be colleagues.

Maggie heaved a sigh of relief as she saw them go. She would miss him being around in the daytime, but she was happy he was finally able to return to the life he relied on to help him survive.

In the weeks that followed, Maggie made a conscious effort to focus her attention elsewhere in the neighborhood and give Paul a break from her prying. This didn't mean that she didn't monitor him at all. She still watched him anxiously when he came home from work; when he sat on his couch and rubbed vigorously at his right thigh and took the white pills she'd finally got to see from a vial he kept close by.

She watched in sympathy when his painful movements told her he was still hurting, although her nurse's savvy told her stubbornly that he would never get any better. But he was working through the worst of it gradually … sometimes pacing and pacing and pacing …

It was difficult to watch sometimes … and sometimes Maggie had to turn away and busy herself with other pursuits so she would not end up sitting in her chair and crying over something that she was powerless to do anything about.

The activities of the young street urchins led by Scooter and his friends, formerly "The Potato Chip and Soda Can Gang", suddenly ceased their littering ways. When they sat together on the front stoop of Gateway, chattering and laughing after school, their accumulated junk food wrappers found their way quickly to the trashcan on the curb, and peace reigned. Dog owners could walk past out front in the company of their pets without fear of being accosted by a flock of young airheads. All this "about-face" caused Maggie to shake her head appreciatively.

The bonus of this hard-learned lesson came mid-afternoon one Thursday while Maggie had been standing at her front window drying the newly washed glass with a page of crumpled newspaper. Looking down into the street, she saw Paul actually driving his own silly old car, returning home more than two hours early from work.

He waved to the boys out the car window as he turned into the entrance of the underground garage. She hoped he'd taken the afternoon off because he wanted to, rather than come home ill or in pain. She needen't have worried. He came around the corner five minutes later with his cane and strange off-center gait, and settled himself onto the stoop beside the youngsters with a stiff, grace-with-ripples unlimbering.

Similar to the last time, when it had ended in disaster, Paul sat and talked with the boys and laughed at their jokes for ten minutes, perhaps longer. Maggie was mesmerized at the rapport he'd so easily established with the former little ruffians, and she was charmed by the warmth of his smile. Why, she wondered, did he seem so isolated and lonely at other times?

When he struggled to his feet to go inside, she saw that they all hung back with newfound respect for his difficulty. No one punched anyone else in roughneck farewell. The other two boys left for home, waving backward to Paul and Scooter who moved slowly inside. Scooter followed his friend, rather than preceding him, and Maggie's respect for the man grew in leaps and bounds.

Sometimes in the evenings she would scan the neighborhood and see Scooter standing motionless in front of the Atherton's bay window, staring out at the streetlights, traffic lights and Princeton's vivid night life. She would wonder what the boy was thinking, considering the sea change his young life had taken recently.

Scooter was calmer now, less hyper. His pants were hanging straighter on his small frame, and he no longer appeared to be walking sideways. His shirts were either tucked all the way in, or left all the way out. His sneakers were both tied correctly more often than not, and she discarded any further thoughts of cowboy boots. Once in a great while he even combed his hair!

Maggie speculated how much of it might have been Paul's influence … for she recognized hero worship when she saw it … or perhaps Scooter's parents had caught wind of the boys' dressing down by the man in Apartment Eight, and had backed him up. Whatever it was, she approved, for it seemed to be working in spades.

Once, while she was looking in that direction, Scooter's attention had been riveted on a low-flying plane. As he watched it disappear toward the far horizon, his line of vision was drawn back across the rooftops, suddenly lowering directly to her apartment. She could have sworn he had stared right at her for a lingering span of moments with a puzzled look on his face. She'd lowered the binoculars quickly, half embarrassed at being busted by a child. But it didn't matter. She had not exactly been watching _him!_

Yes she had …

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Down one level, in Fancy Nancy's place, strange things were happening. The girl had been flying in and out of there recently with amazing speed. Sometimes she would be home all day, just flitting about in useless preoccupation like the humming bird she was. At other times she returned home only late at night. She would scurry about again, in a flurry of frenzied motion, only to disappear into the bedroom, turn off the lights and not reappear until late in the morning, unwound and undone.

All her bangly-danglies had taken a powder to some other location. She did not look the animated Christmas tree anymore. These days she looked the exhausted little waif in torn blue jeans and old tee shirts.

Nancy began to remove cardboard boxes of small items from her place every time she left, and cart them off to somewhere else, then return with an empty box and load up more little glitzy things. Finally, Maggie understood. She was moving! Day after day, Nancy dragged clothes rack after clothes rack from her darkened hallway into the living room. These she filled to overflowing with a wide assortment of garments from her bedroom. Maggie speculated, chuckling to herself, whether the bedroom had a back door into the space-time continuum …

At odd times, Nancy would return to the gutted apartment with a ragged detachment of young men in tow, young men of endless and varied descriptions: tall, short, fat, lean, clean-shaven and grizzled, body-pierced and tattooed. Or not! All of them seemed willing to do her bidding. She flirted and cajoled and teased and flaunted until they all followed her around like puppies. In a single day they had carted away almost everything except a few odd straight chairs and the tall maple credenza.

That night, Nancy's apartment was dark. She was no longer there. She had paused in her open doorway earlier for a lengthy kiss with one of her hairy ensemble before turning out the lights and locking up.

_Well, hell!_

Maggie sighed. It looked as though she would soon have to break in a new neighbor. A sudden thought occurred, and it sent an involuntary shiver of alarm down her spine.

She hoped Paul wouldn't decide to do likewise. His relationship with Richard seemed to be heating up lately, and the possibility was not out of the question. Was his apartment big enough for both of them? They needed somewhere out of the way and private, not a fishbowl where some sicko … other than a nosey old retired broad … could spy on them whenever he or she wished.

She knew she was way ahead of herself … they could, after all, invest in some heavy insulated draperies …

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23


	7. Chapter 7

"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"

- Chapter 7 -

"Feeling a Little Grumpy … Except for the Dancing"

The weekend was rainy.

Saturday arrived with drizzling rain and humidity like the inside of a sauna. It was nasty for the middle of July, and especially messy in downtown Princeton, New Jersey. Traffic was doing a snail's crawl and all traffic signals nearby were blinking amber. A transformer had blown somewhere, making it a suicide mission for weekend travelers trying to get across town. Maggie didn't see any nervously rotating line lights that indicated utility trucks or crews working on the problem, or at least on the way. Must have just happened!

She had her chores finished by noon, and sat in the recliner with a cup of coffee, staring balefully into the pitiful day. Nothing on the local news indicated any kind of electrical problem. The media wasn't on it yet either. She shrugged and turned off the TV.

Across the way, Fancy Nancy's place was still dark, and Maggie wondered when she would bring back her fuzzy little crew to finish removing the odds and ends of dishes, glassware, knick-knacks and the rest of the clutter. Plus the big oak credenza!

Nancy still had two weeks until the month … and her lease … ran out. Then she would be forced to vacate. But there was a lot of time until then. Maybe she wouldn't bother with more scut work on this dreary weekend.

Scooter and his family were not around. The lights were on over there, but she could see no movement. But then, their apartment was a little too high up to see anyone over there who was not within a few feet of the window or close to the furthest wall.

Maggie lowered her attention for a moment to Paul's apartment, breaking her vow to let him (them) alone on weekends, except for times when she succumbed to the need to check on his well-being. Panning around the space, she got the surprise of her life. Richard was there, of course, because it was Saturday.

They must have had music playing on a radio or stereo, because they were …

Dancing.

_Dancing!_

Not slow dancing … cheek to cheek … so Richard could hold Paul steady within his arms … but _dancing_-dancing … spirited jumping up and down and around.

How could Paul _possibly_ … ?

Maggie's mouth fell open in astonishment, and her lower jaw dropped like a stone, almost landing in the middle of her ample chest. Dancing! Paul too. She stared, and found herself filled with astounded delight until the tears ran down her cheeks when she saw how they were doing it.

_Good for them!_

It was wonderful. They were both in sock feet on the bare floor, and it was sweet Richard who was in complete control. Arms outstretched, his hands grasped Paul securely at the shoulders. Paul's arms lay on top of Richard's, the other man's hands holding firmly to Paul's biceps, forming a perfect tripod of upper body strength. Richard's feet were making all the moves, forming the steps gently, leading Paul's one functioning foot into a matching rhythm.

Paul held his bum leg in a bent position, gingerly, only his toes touching down, but his good leg was busy, moving gracefully. His body arced back, swayed side to side, matching the tempo set by his friend. Between the two of them, they were doing quite nicely, thank you.

The music ended a minute or so later. They broke apart, huffing and puffing like old men. Laughing. Heads thrown back in delight. Richard kept a hand protectively near Paul's right arm, and Paul, for once, did not dispute it. After a moment he broke away and hop-stepped across to the couch where he'd left the cane. His smile faded quickly as he lowered himself down.

His pain was returning. He'd pushed a little too hard, and Maggie could not watch. She turned away and put the binoculars down on the windowsill just as Richard went to his knees and gently touched Paul's hurt leg.

Maggie waited a few minutes before picking the glasses up again. She did not look across the street. A flock of birds, braving the weather, flew high over Gateway, probably heading for the park in hopes of bread scraps from people walking over there. Dumb arses! People didn't "do" rain in quite the same manner as birds. Those feathered freeloaders were in for a big disappointment.

She moved her gaze down across the roofline, following the stainless steel trim across the squared-off roof. Wetness running off it made the whole façade look like a giant birthday cake with icing running down over the edge; a touch of sweetness in the gloomy east coast weather.

Further down, all the lights were still on in the Atherton apartment. At the window, Scooter stood looking out, frowning into the murky daylight. Peering straight into her eyes! He was saying something to someone behind him. Momentarily, a man stepped up to the window also. A large hand on a small shoulder. Looking in the direction where a small finger was pointing. A woman moved into the picture. She nodded, said something.

Maggie sighed, put the binoculars down. _Maybe we could all have a party! _ She thought sarcastically. She retrieved her coffee cup from the windowsill. The coffee was stone cold. Again! If she counted up all the cups of coffee she'd allowed to turn to ice on that windowsill, she could probably line them end-to-end halfway to Plainsboro.

She was feeling a little grumpy.

Maggie made herself some lunch sometime after noon. Sandwich, Monterey Jack, tossed salad, glass of milk with two pecan sandies on the side. Boring. She did her dishes, went to the bathroom and washed up.

There was a Busch Race on TV. Lots of baseball on ESPN and elsewhere. Some dumb old John Wayne movie, filmed so long ago that she had actually seen it in the theater as a kid. She didn't remember the title. You saw one you saw 'em all.

She channel surfed awhile, then switched back to the race. Arthur used to get a kick out of the NASCAR Winston Cup races. "No right turns," he would laugh when she looked at him in puzzlement. It took years before she finally got it. They were doing all the silly pre-race rituals. Interviewed the same drivers they interviewed every week; every sentence out of their mouths an annoying sing-song of praise for their sponsors. Lots of shrieking and yelling and waving at the camera from the sidelines. Good ol' boys!

"_Raaht naow!"_

Another off-key acappella rendition of the national anthem. (Most country singers really _needed _those loud electric guitars to keep them on key!) Another inarticulate slicked-back southern preacher who asked everyone to "remove yer hats an' stand for the 'innovation' …" and soon after that, some ancient dude she'd never heard of, screaming: "Gennelmen … startcherengins!"

She sighed and turned it off.

Maggie went back to the window awhile later with a Fifth Avenue candy bar in her hand. Bit off a chunk. Chewed thoughtfully. _Ummm …_ She popped the second half into her mouth and chewed again. Sat down on the recliner. Picked up the binocs.

Fancy Nancy had returned to her apartment. She was alone. She looked a little worse for wear today, as though she had been working her little butt off at some other location. She was slightly damp; probably setting up her new place at the same time she was tearing this one down. She already had the drawers out of the credenza, lined up to the side of it like square soldiers. Four extra dining chairs were standing near the front door, two standing, and the other two upside down atop the first.

A box of odds and ends stood waiting nearby. For now, she sat on the floor sorting linens into two more boxes fished out of a pile dumped haphazardly behind her. She hadn't left herself much room to work.

The glass doors of the credenza top were standing open, revealing rows of beautiful, fragile long-stemmed glasses, silver-ringed water glasses, and a nice set of bone China. On the floor in front of the bottom display shelf, a large statue of an elegant horse stood with foreleg lifted, neck arched. Leonardo's horse?

After fifteen minutes or so, Nancy finished sorting linens and dragged two of the boxes across to the front door to stand with those already there. She paused a moment, then walked into the (probably) kitchen and returned with a stack of old newspapers. She dropped them in front of the credenza beside the horse.

Nancy straightened a moment and wiped her hands down the front of her jeans, then turned in the direction of the (probably) bathroom. Nature called! She went inside and closed the door. Three minutes later, back again and back to business. Maggie watched, impressed. The girl was efficient.

Nancy stood for a moment, hands on hips, surveying the mess on the carpet, a little undecided about what to tackle next. She stared up at the glassware, and Maggie smiled. She knew exactly what the kid was thinking, because she hated wrapping glassware too. It was tedious, boring, and one had to be _so_ careful, or the damned things would literally _jump_ out of your fingers, searching frantically for a hard place upon which to smash themselves to smithereens. Like a blister on your toe … any little careless touch made them exquisitely angry!

Nancy finally turned around, ready to begin taking glasses off the shelves to wrap them in newspapers. She took a step in that direction and reached out a hand …

… and at the same instant … from her apartment all the way across East Side Drive … Margaret Kincannon shot to her feet, dropped the binoculars to the carpet and screamed.

"_Oh my God! Look out!"_

Only silence. Only the desperate silence of shattering glasses, shattering China, shattering stemware and glass shelves. Only the silence of Fancy Nancy's desperate scream as her foot dashed into the base of the heavy horse statue. And only silence when she lost her balance and crashed, arms outthrust, instinctively shielding her face and head, into the corner edge of the credenza.

Maggie heard the silence of shattering glassware, as the eminent disaster took on a life of its own. The heavy top half of the credenza came loose from its mounts and fell forward in slow motion, directly on top of Nancy's upper body, hitting the side of her pretty face, spewing shards of splintered glassware and splintered bone China everywhere.

Nancy's hands flew up, still in reflex motion, protecting her face and eyes, but otherwise she was too late, her reaction not in time. Her forward momentum gave her no chance to get out of the way. The top tilted forward, knocked off its mounts, and threw her down against the pile of cardboard boxes and then onto the carpet, scattering silvery slivers that fell like spun-glass rain, much more deadly than the rain outside.

The entire top section of the credenza, plate-glass doors wide open and terribly overbalanced, buckled at the middle seam and landed across her slender body, pinning her out of sight beneath the near corner. It rocked for a moment and then lay still. So did Nancy. Only the lower portions of her legs and the pair of worn sneakers stuck out where Maggie could still see them when she stared through the binoculars.

Maggie froze for a moment in horror. Fancy Nancy did not move. She was out cold. Then Maggie's analytical mind began to function. She dropped the binoculars on the carpet, raced to the telephone stand and opened the drawer for her hearing aids. She dialed 911 and waited.

Calmly she gave the basic facts when the operator came on the line. Gave accurate information, left her name and address and phone number and hung up.

She ran back to the window, picked the binoculars off the carpet and hoped like hell that Scooter was still staring out the window. Even Richard … or Paul … someone who would see her and try to help. She was no longer hiding behind the draperies, spying on the neighbors. She needed those neighbors desperately.

Scooter was still standing at the window. Paul and Richard, nowhere to be seen. Paul's leg was hurting. He was probably resting, and Richard had gone with him.

Maggie gestured to Scooter frantically, pointing down toward Nancy's apartment. Pointing and pointing. The boy frowned. He was looking at her quizzically, but he did not understand.

His father appeared suddenly beside him, also looking at her with a puzzled expression.

Then he looked suddenly across the room. He was being called away from the window. Scooter had left too.

Maggie despaired. She had not gotten her message across.

She turned the binoculars back on Nancy's apartment. The girl still had not moved.

A tint of bright red began to appear among the shards of glass under the credenza's crazily tilted top …

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28


	8. Chapter 8

"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"

- Chapter 8 -

"A Study in Grand Heroics"

Apartment Ten, Gateway Complex, 341 East Side Drive: the telephone was ringing insistently.

Ken McGruder, EMT, looked across the room at his wife, Cindy. He'd been standing at the picture window with his son, Luke, peering across the street in the direction the boy was pointing excitedly.

"The lady, Dad! The lady!"

"I'll get it," Cindy called to him over her son's shrill yammering. She picked up the phone and paused to listen closely for a moment. Then she looked back to her husband who was still attempting to shush their offspring.

"The lady, Dad! Look at the lady!"

"Who is it honey?" Ken's hand was on the small shoulder, trying to invoke silence, but Luke would not be silenced.

"It's the lady, Dad! The lady we saw in the window last night. Something's wrong, Dad! She pointed at me and then ran across the room."

Cindy called to her husband again. She held out the receiver at arms' length. "It's Joe Ellis, Ken. He wants you to meet the unit … something's happened … here in this building. You're supposed to meet them down at Apartment Five … some kind of accident."

He was moving in her direction, walking away from Luke, and Luke was following him, still bugging him about "the lady" …

"Ken?" Cindy was asking, "doesn't Dr. House live down there somewhere? I'm sure his apartment is one floor down from ours …"

Ken took the phone from her hand and spoke a few words into it. His hand was still on Luke's shoulder, and the boy was still insisting that he listen. He finished and handed the phone back, suddenly paying more attention to the boy. Perhaps Luke's "lady" knew something was up. "Uh … yeah," he said above the confusion. "Gregory House? Yeah, he lives in Eight, I think. You don't think it's him, do you?"

"I don't know, honey … his health isn't the best."

Beside him, Luke pulled down on his father's shirttail. "Is Dr. Gregg okay, Dad? He didn't hurt his leg again, did he?"

"I don't know, son. I certainly hope not. You sure do like that dude, don't you? Funny.

Not many people do. But he's made himself a hero in your eyes, so I guess he can't be all bad." Ken smiled and tousled the black hair. "Now what's this about the lady? Show me!"

Luke turned and bolted for the window again. "The lady" had disappeared.

"Luke … I've got to go. The squad's meeting me downstairs in a few minutes, and I need to go see what's up. We'll check on your lady … later. Okay?"

"Can I come too, Dad? I need to see if Dr. Gregg's okay!"

Ken McGruder shook his head and reached to the special hook where his Emergency Medical Tech jacket always hung at the ready. Slipping it across his shoulders, he paused momentarily. "Not right now. I have to go to work, and you know how important it is when I have to go to work. I'm sure your Dr. Gregg is okay … but I promise I'll let you know. All right?"

Crestfallen, the boy nodded. "Yeh-h-h …" Luke's whiny response was not what his father had hoped to hear.

Ken put on the official cap, announcing that he was now on the job. He leaned over to kiss Cindy on the cheek. "I'll call you," he said. "As soon as I know what's going on …

And so _he_ doesn't blow a gasket."

She nodded. "Be careful …" It was a useless admonition and she knew it, but she always said it anyway. His job tended to be a little dangerous sometimes.

"I will." Standard response. Then he was out the door.

Behind him, Cindy wandered into the kitchen, looking for something to occupy the time until this mission was over. Ken was very good at what he did, but she worried about him.

Lingering uselessly in front of the big window and feeling at odds with his Dad's orders, Luke McGruder stared morosely into the street. He was worried about Dr. Gregg. He had felt responsible for the injury to the man's crippled leg a couple of months ago. If that accident had made the doctor's leg a little weaker and he'd hurt it again today, some of that new responsibility was his also. Wasn't it?

Down toward the middle of town, traffic was in a snarl. Traffic lights were still blinking amber. It was one colossal mess. Summer fog and misty rain didn't help either. Car lights glaring against the rain, all had halos around them. Luke thought of them as a whole bunch of little angels floating around out there. So why weren't they doing some little miracles and making the red lights "red" again?

Suddenly, across the street, the big glass door of the older apartment house swung outward. A stout gray woman stepped onto the sidewalk and stomped in Luke's direction, looking both ways, ready to cross the street.

It was "The Lady!"

She was an _old_ lady! She wore baggy blue jeans and a baggy old red Budweiser tee shirt. She wore sneakers and had cork-things shoved into both ears. Funny! He watched her standing at the curb, looking for a break in traffic. Then the street cleared for a moment and she quickly disappeared beneath his line of vision.

The lady was coming _over here!_

Luke simply _had_ to find out what was going on. He walked over and glanced into the kitchen. His Mom was getting ingredients out of the cupboards … ready to bake a cake or something …she would never miss him. He snuck to the front door, opened it stealthily, and made tracks into the hallway.

Maggie stepped up on the opposite curb and made her way quickly to the front entrance of Gateway. Just as she stepped onto the first step, the bleat of an emergency siren wailed from somewhere behind her. The ambulance was on its way to Nancy! She paused, straining to see its rotating red light somewhere on the streets further down.

The ambulance was dead in the water. Halted and stuck in the snarl of traffic, and still blocks away in the crush of hundreds of other vehicles whose drivers were confused by the blinking amber signals. No one could find an easy way through the maze. Even those drivers who endeavored to get out of the way of an emergency vehicle were powerless to move in the bumper-to-bumper tie-up.

Maggie quickened her pace. Maybe, if she could get to Fancy Nancy's apartment, she might be able to help until the medics got there …

Luke McGruder vaulted down the auxiliary stairs to the fourth floor of Gateway. He had to see Dr Gregg! He would die a thousand deaths if his friend had gotten himself hurt again. He reached Apartment Eight and banged both small fists as hard as he could on the door.

Apartment Eight? Apartment Five? He remembered his Mom had said something about the accident happening in _Apartment Five._ He was confused for a moment, but he needed to know … see Dr. Gregg with his own eyes and make sure he was all right.

Someone opened the door very quickly. It was quiet, polite Dr. Wilson. "Well hello, Luke. What brings you here?" James Wilson backed away from the door to allow the excited boy to enter. "Would you like to come in?"

Luke poked his shaggy black head around the doorframe and looked around. "Where's Dr. Gregg? Is he okay? He didn't get hurt again, did he?"

"Whoa-whoa-whoa there, big guy!" Wilson exclaimed with a puzzled smile. What's this? Dr. Gregg is fine. He's resting. What's going on?"

"I gotta see Dr. Gregg!" Luke insisted. "There's an accident down here … I gotta see if he's okay. My Dad is goin' to the accident … an' he's waiting for the ambulance to get here. I thought it was Dr. Gregg. Can I see him, Dr. Wilson? Please …"

From the bedroom doorway, a deep voice called the boy's name teasingly in a low rumble. "Hey, friend Luke! What's got your knickers in a knot?"

It was Dr. Gregg, apparently unhurt. His head was cocked slightly to the side with a look of puzzlement to match Dr. Wilson's. He was wearing a gray sweat suit and leaning a lot of weight on his cane. It was obvious that he'd just awakened.

Luke broke away from the doorframe and ran headlong across the room, skidding to a halt before he barreled into House's knees. Again! The small face looked upward in devotion and relief. "You're okay … right?"

House grinned. "I'm okay. Right!" He looked over the kid's head and met the quiet, approving twinkle of Wilson's dark eyes. He thought if he was asked that question one more time this week, he might begin to throw things against the walls.

"My Dad said there was an accident … and I hadda be sure it wasn't you …"

"It wasn't. Where is there an accident?"

"Mom said Apartment Five."

"Suzanne DiRocco's place," Wilson said. "But I think she's moving out …"

House shrugged. "I don't know that many people here," he confessed. "Suzanne who?"

"DiRocco," Luke said. "The artist."

"Do you think maybe we should go see??" House glared pointedly at Wilson.

His friend sighed with resignation. When House said "maybe", it usually meant "what-the-hell-are-we-waiting-for?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Can you do it?" He nodded pointedly at House's bum leg.

"I'm fine, dammit!"

Wilson closed his eyes and counted to ten. What was the use? "Let's go check it out then," he said. "I'll get a medical bag …"

House was already in the hallway, headed for the elevator and flanked closely by Luke McGruder.

Wilson, with a dramatic sigh and another roll of his eyes, followed with the medical bag. Kind of like an afterthought.

House was already girding up into professional mode.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

33


	9. Chapter 9

"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"

- Chapter 9 -

"Saving the Fair Young Maiden"

Three of them took the elevator down to the third floor. Hurried through the hallway, knocked on the door of Apartment Five. There was no answer. Wilson knocked again, then tried the door. It was unlocked.

They stuck their heads inside and saw the devastation, the shattered glass, the credenza tipped off its base. Then they saw the blood. Not pools, but spatters. On the broken glassware, smeared on the edge of the credenza top, on the carpet. Someone was under the wreckage. They could see old sneakers, blood-spattered slender legs, beginning to move weakly … a faint moan …

Wilson held out an arm quickly, blocking Luke from advancing any further into the room. Gregg had already thrown down his cane; he was on hands and knees on the floor, crouching, crawling closer to the point of contact.

"Luke!" Wilson said sternly. "Please … go wait in the hall! You don't want to see this. Dr. Gregg and I have to go to work now. Do you understand?"

Luke nodded solemnly, straining to see what he could see from the open doorway, which wasn't much. He grumbled deep in his throat, "That's the same thing my Dad said …"

"Your Dad was right. He's a smart man. Do you trust Dr. Gregg and me enough to listen to what we say?"

Luke nodded, backing up a step. "Yessir."

Wilson touched the boy's shoulder and turned toward his friend for a moment in mounting concern. Gregg was inching ever nearer to the girl beneath the overturned cabinet top. "Good. Thanks, Luke. When your Dad and the EMT squad arrive, let them know we're in here. Will you do that?" When Luke nodded agreement and retreated into the corridor, Wilson tightened his grip on the medical bag and closed the door firmly.

Luke slid down the wall to sit on the floor, once more resigned, reluctantly, to carrying out the orders of a grownup.

Down at the end of the hallway, emerging from the elevator and heading in his direction, was his Dad. And right behind his Dad was "The Lady"!

Gregory House was turned partially onto his left side, sprawled in the middle of the debris field of shattered glass that had exploded outward, carried partly by its own momentum and partly by the forward movement of the credenza top. He had squirmed his lanky body beneath the straight edge that lay balanced against the line of cardboard boxes on the floor. He was totally oblivious of the sparkling splinters imbedded in his sweats, and most likely, here and there in his skin.

When Wilson squatted beside him in an attempt to offer assistance, he found that there was no room for him to maneuver. Gregg was on his own. All that could be seen of his friend's body were the long legs, the bare ankles, and the brown soft-sole moccasins on his feet.

Wilson gulped. "House? Are you all right? Is it safe for me to lift this damned thing off you?"

Gregg's voice came back, half breathless. "Yeah. Go ahead. After you do that, get me a damned needleful of rock-a-bye baby juice. This kid is beginning to come around … and that's _all_ I need right now!"

"Lifting!" Wilson said breathlessly. He dropped the medical bag and grasped the bottom edge of the credenza. Hefting upward, half laterally, he flung the heavy piece backward, then to the side and up, until the bottom half was leaning firmly against its brother. It wasn't going anywhere. Pieces of a heavy ceramic horse crunched to cinders beneath his feet.

He could hear and feel the soles of his shoes making glass dust of the shards on the floor. He winced at the thought of it penetrating the girl's skin … and House's. He hoped her eyes were all right. But he despaired of House coming out back out of there without spilling some of his own blood …

House was very close to the girl's side. Two fingers were at her carotid pulse, but she was beginning to fight him. He reached up his right hand to Wilson without looking. "Sedative, Wilson … now!"

Wilson had the syringe in his hand, uncapped and primed in less than three seconds. "Here …"

Gregg poised with the needle in his hand for only an instant. He pinched the girl's shoulder until she hunched in pain and drew a breath to holler, giving him the opening he needed. He plunged the needle home and emptied it. "There, by God! That oughta knock her into the middle of next week. Now I can work."

He reached backward again, and with bright red fingers, handed the needle to Wilson who had hastily drawn on a pair of rubber gloves. House's hands, however, were unprotected. There hadn't been time. He had a pair of tweezers from the med bag clasped in his right hand, and was methodically removing glass splinters and wiping his hands to get rid of the slippery blood in order to hold onto them.

Wilson pulled a handful of linen table napkins from the only box that had escaped the glass shower. He handed one to Gregg, who wiped his hands with deliberate care, and then turned back to his poking and prodding. "Not as bad as it looks," he grunted. His hands were back in the bloody depths again, still tweezing splinters from the side of Suzanne's face and neck. Again and again he reached into the medical bag for antiseptic and gauze; wiping and digging, swearing and soothing, his body writhing on the carpet in an attempt to get closer to her head.

"Pretty sure there's a concussion. There's a lump on the top of her head the size of a golf ball. The rest is mostly cuts and bruises. There are some nasty gashes on her arms and shoulders. A few on her midriff and rib cage. We need to get her to the hospital so they can finish digging the glass out of her. It's like the Okeefenokee Swamp down here!"

Wilson held out more gauze, more antiseptic. House reached for them, hands bloodied and slippery. He wiped the mess on his sweat pants again and returned to his patching and grumbling. "What the _hell _did she think she was doing?"

Wilson kept handing over medical supplies and linen napkins. House kept examining and pulling out glass slivers and wiping his hands on the napkins and the legs of his sweat pants.

Two people suddenly appeared at the front door and stepped into the room. One of them was Ken McGruder, a familiar face to both House and Wilson. The gray haired woman in jeans and an old red Budweiser tee shirt behind him, however, wore the scowling face of an absolute stranger.

"She was getting ready to pack her glassware into cardboard boxes." The woman answered House's question without actually looking at him. Her full attention was centered on the injured girl. "She tripped on that big horse statue and lost her balance. Fell into the front of the cabinet. It repaid the insult by falling on _her!"_

At that moment, James Wilson turned around to face the new voice. As he did so, the woman's eyes turned to saucers, and her mouth formed a perfect letter "O" in the center of her round face. Maggie Kincannon froze to the spot.

The handsome boy with the moppy auburn hair and the chocolate eyes …

_Richard!_

Maggie blinked twice, totally speechless, and then her eyes slid across to the right in slow motion as she searched behind him. She was almost afraid to look at the man lying on the floor, mired in broken glass and shattered China and a spreading film of blood on the carpet.

_Paul! _

_Oh my God! Paul! There's your cane … you boys are doctors!_

"Who are you?" Wilson asked innocently.

Maggie's mind, meanwhile, had turned to jelly. She continued to stare like a deer caught in the headlights.

It took two false starts before the nurse's intellect took over again. "I'm Maggie Kincannon. I'm a nurse. Or I _was._ I live across the street. It saw the accident happen from my window and called 911 …"

Ken McGruder chuckled when he heard her. "Uh … yeah," he said. "Maggie may have had a hand in getting Suzanne some help in time. We'll never know, will we? My unit is still stuck in traffic downtown. If she hadn't called for help, and my son hadn't known who she was, this may have turned out a little differently. And by the way, I see you've got the kid sitting on his butt in the hallway. Thanks."

Wilson smiled. "Sure. He came to House's place … scared to death. Thought it might have been him that got hurt."

McGruder nodded. "Yeah, I know." His voice lowered conspiratorially. "He drives me nuts worrying about 'Dr. Gregg'. How is House's leg, anyhow?"

Wilson shrugged, hedging. "It's about as good as it's ever gonna be …"

House looked up from the mess and scratched his nose, effectively smearing blood all over his cheek. He plied his attention between the woman and Ken McGruder. He addressed Maggie narrowly. "So … you know Friend Luke, huh?"

Maggie had no chance to answer. She had been eavesdropping on the conversation between John Atherton and Richard.

Paul … or whatever his real name was … had already turned back to his picking and tweezing. His hands were slippery with blood, and the right cuff of his sweatshirt was saturated and dripping red. When he wiped his hands on his pants and on the linen napkins, it did no good. They were slick. He could no longer wipe it off.

Maggie frowned. "Are you all right down there … uh … Doctor?"

"Yeah," House grunted. "Why?"

"You oughta check your right hand."

House ignored her. He pulled out more bandages, more antiseptic. His hands were again covered with blood, and again he scrubbed it off on the already soaked pants. Wilson handed over the rest of the supplies from the medical bag, then turned to Maggie. "What do you mean?"

"He has a chunk of glass imbedded in his hand." She whispered. "I'd make a bet on it."

Wilson turned around again. "House?"

Moments later, a string of profanity drifted back over his shoulder. "Oh fuck! Screw me! Ouch and Goddammit!"

Maggie made a scrunched face full of chagrin and confirmation.

House raised himself gradually from beside his unconscious patient and levered himself to a sitting position. He looked as though he'd just come away from a knife fight; much the worse for wear.

Angrily, he extended his right hand, bloody palm up, for Wilson's examination. "I was down there going nuts, trying to figure out where the hell this kid was bleeding out … and I couldn't find anything more. Then I put my hand flat on the floor to move over … and I damn near passed out. It's not _her_ that's bleeding out … it's _me! _I have a chunk of glass in my hand the size of the Washington Monument!"

Wilson took House's hand gently into his own and looked closer at the palm. There was a large gash in the center, deep, and bleeding freely. He hissed a breath of shared pain between his teeth for a moment, but looked at House with a tinge of amusement.

"Yup … you do. Bet that smarts, doesn't it?"

He looked up quickly and met the curious eyes of Maggie Kincannon. Both her eyebrows were up in an "I told ya so" expression.

Wilson nodded slightly … and winked. He dug in the medical bag for bigger tweezers and a syringe of Lidocaine.

Maggie grinned. Paul's injury wasn't that serious, but it would certainly be inconvenient for awhile …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

38


	10. Chapter 10

"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"

- Chapter 10 -

"Heroes Are Friends of the Heart"

Handsome Paul … the man Maggie had fantasized as the crippled, suffering and gentle hero … sat in the middle of the glass-strewn floor hugging his numbed and bloody hand to his chest. The string of epithets that came out of his mouth should not ever be witnessed in mixed company. Maggie, Ken and Richard cringed at the tirade's bold originality, and then burst into gentle laughter. Teasing, but caring. Unable to resist appreciative exasperation.

Paul looked up at them, blue eyes flashing sparks. "I'm bleeding like a stuck pig here … an' I'm gonna be about a quart low by the time we get this girl out of here. Is the meat wagon here yet? Shit! I'm no goddamn good with the cane in my left hand. That means a freakin' wheelchair. Crap! You'd think I'd learn to mind my own business …"

"House. You _never_ mind your own business!" The gentle admonition came from Richard who was bending down to pick up the last two linen napkins in the box. "Here, wrap these around your hand to stop the bleeding. They're gonna have to give you another local at the hospital so they can sew you up … you know that, right?"

Paul snorted. "Not born yesterday, y'know …"

Standing to the side, Maggie was getting an earful. Her fantasy hero was a foul-mouthed idiot. He was a _doctor,_ for God's sake! A healer. He had jabbed himself viciously in the unprotected palm of his hand and hadn't even realized it until he'd tried to push himself up with the hand. He'd bled all over himself and hadn't a clue. Worse than an intern!

What a joke! Maggie couldn't help herself. She cackled, standing there in the middle of this almost vacant room, watching three adult males and one unconscious girl paint a tableau and perform a scenario that rivaled any soap opera on the air.

At least Fancy Nancy … Suzanne … whoever she was … would recover … probably with very few scars. If he had done nothing else, Paul had at least persisted in her care until he had removed most of the glass fragments from her skin.

Ken McGruder was busy on his cell phone, punching up numbers, listening, saying a few words, then punching off, only to immediately punch in another number. Maggie wondered what on earth he was doing …

Now she was beginning to wonder how the hell they would get Paul out of here. His clothing was bloody and peppered with glass fragments. His hands were slippery almost to his elbows. He could not walk, and there was nowhere for him to sit down. They could not even take him out of here on a gurney in this condition. In fact, neither could they take Nancy without somehow protecting her body from further damage by the glass shards.

In front of her and off to the side, Ken McGruder was still on his cell phone. He spoke a few words and then rang off. He looked up and glanced at the others around him. When he spoke, it was mostly to Richard … Dr. Wilson …

"The 'meat wagon'," he said teasingly, "is on its way. The police finally intervened in the problem downtown, and most of the traffic snarl is untangled. I'm going downstairs to meet them, and I'll bring them up here. Should be about fifteen minutes until we can get you and Suzanne and Dr. House out of here. I'll take Luke with me and chase his sneaky little butt back upstairs. Are you all right with that?"

Wilson nodded. "Thank you."

From the floor: "Thanks."

McGruder nodded sharply. "They're bringing a high-powered shop-vac to pull the glass away so Gregg and Suzanne can be removed safely." He turned on his heel and was gone into the hallway.

Richard was down on his haunches beside Paul, one hand on the other man's shoulder, the other lightly touching the wrist of the injured hand. "Hey, House …you doin' okay?"

"Hey Wilson … yeah …" The blue eyes had softened in contact with the brown ones. "My ass feels like it's being stabbed by a thousand needles …"

"It probably is," the other man said softly. "If you want, I suppose I can massage it for you later …"

Maggie turned away to hide the flames heating up her face. They did not even remember she was still there. She turned around and walked over to the front window to stare down into the street and look across into the window of her own apartment. A few very strange things had come out of her voyeuristic experience. She wasn't sure if she felt glad or sorry.

As she watched, the ambulance pulled up out front with red lights flashing.

Maggie turned around to inform the men huddled together in the middle of the floor.

xxxxxxxx

After the EMT team removed Dr. House and Suzanne DiRocco on gurneys and took them to the hospital, Maggie looked around at the aftermath of the disaster in the luxury apartment.

Suzanne would be fine. Dr. House would be fine also. As Maggie thought about him, she smiled to herself, and rethought some of the things she originally assumed when she'd first come into contact with the "real" person. It was a disillusionment: something like seeing Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother morph into the Big Bad Wolf …

The little boy … "Scooter" … Luke … was the catalyst in this whole drama. As a rule, kids did not choose losers for their heroes. Most kids were smarter than that, and Luke was no exception. As a nurse, Maggie had worked with a lot of doctors in her day. Some she had liked and admired; some she had not cared for at all. But she had _never _before run into anyone quite like this screwball. "Dr. Gregg", however, must have _something_ going for him. Something good and kind and brave and decent. She just couldn't quite figure out what it was.

"Richard" … James Wilson … was a sweetheart. What he saw in that grizzled smartass was beyond her, but he too must be looking very deeply below the surface. Somehow his devotion to the man was a rare and quintessentially logical thing. Good cop, bad cop.

Maggie sighed and took one last look around her. The gruesome devastation of the apartment's living area looked a little like Berlin in the aftermath of Dolittle's Raid. She walked out the front door and closed it firmly behind her. Took the elevator to the ground floor and walked outside.

She stood on the curb for a moment before crossing the street. The Doppler wail of the emergency siren flared for an instant, then faded quickly with distance.

Then she went home.

The binoculars didn't hold much fascination anymore …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

41


	11. Chapter 11

"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"

- Chapter 11 -

"All Things Considered …"

Maggie Kincannon removed her hearing aids in the bathroom and set them on the counter next to the washbowl. She showered, changed into fresh clothing and combed her close-cropped silver hair. She picked up the hearing aids and took them back to the kitchen where they belonged. Put them back in the drawer of the telephone table.

It was getting along toward late afternoon.

While her hands still lingered on the tabletop, she felt the vibration and heard the ringing very faintly. If she had walked into the living room instead, she would have missed the call. She reached into the drawer and slid one of the little instruments into her right ear.

Picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

The person on the other end of the line was Paul … Dr. House.

"Hi Maggie … this is Gregory House …"

_No shit!?_

"It is?"

"Yeah. I want to extend an invitation …" Didn't _sound_ like an invitation. Sounded more like a direct order!

"To what?" Don't give away any military secrets.

"To dinner. Wilson's cooking. You see, I hurt my hand, and I can't do any heavy lifting for quite some time …"

_You're such a wiseass!_

"When?"

"This evening. You wanna come or not?"

More orders? 

"Shouldn't you be resting?"

She paused, thinking. He must have just come home from the hospital. He had to be sore, and probably hurting all over. Maggie was tempted to grab the binoculars … check him out.

But no …

"Why? I don't walk on my hands. Don't walk on my feet right now either …"

"Unhhh …"

"Please."

Actual manners? He wanted something then. She grinned. She couldn't help herself. She was pretty sure what it was … "Would you like me to bring anything?"

"Just yourself."

"Who else is coming?" Check out the rear ranks.

"Just you."

"Oh." Suspicions confirmed! "Well thank you, Dr. House. What time?"

"'Gregg'. Say … in an hour. Is that enough time?"

"Sure. Thanks … Gregg." She was smiling, and she was certain he could hear it in her voice. Like a challenge.

They rang off without any of the niceties usually involved in telephone etiquette.

xxxxxxxx

6:30 p.m.

Maggie knocked on the door of Apartment Eight.

James Wilson, handsome, boyish and slender in brown slacks and tan turtleneck, opened the door and stood back with a smile.

"Come into my parlor," said the spider to the fly… 

She stepped inside, feeling right at home in black dress jeans and white blouse. She looked across the room and met the steely gaze of the beautiful man in the black wheelchair. He looked strained, vulnerable; the same way he'd looked after he'd come home from the hospital the last time. His injured hand was swathed in white, and he held it against his chest protectively. In spite of herself, Maggie's heart went out to him.

"Doctor … House? Gregg? How is your hand? I see it's bandaged rather firmly. And you're not able to walk, are you?"

Gregory House was in sweats; dark blue, a color most wonderfully suited to his slender frame. The right leg rest of the wheelchair was raised level with the floor, and a pillow was tucked beneath his knee. He was definitely hurting, but trying to mask it.

He did not answer right away, and she continued to look around the room she had seen so many times from across the street. It was a study in elegant masculine disorder, and the baby grand was beautiful, even more exquisite than it had first appeared through the binoculars. House must certainly be a virtuoso to have an instrument such as this in his possession. It was a shame he would not be able to play it tonight …

"I'm sore," he finally said. "But it'll be okay soon. It sucks, but them's the breaks."

"How is Suzanne?"

"She's sore too," he said. "But like me, she'll be okay."

"That's good."

The conversation ground to a halt. Wilson had gone into the kitchen.

"I'm the only guest, huh?"

"Yup."

"So, I'm in the hot seat, right?"

"Yup."

"Figured that. What would you like to know?"

When she said that, Wilson walked in from the kitchen with a tray of iced tea and an assortment of snack items on a plate. He set the tray on the coffee table, lowered himself down very near the black wheelchair. He placed his hands discreetly in his lap, and Maggie wanted to tell him it was okay to reach out and take Gregg's sore hand into his own.

With considerable restraint, she didn't.

"We were talking to the McGruders," Wilson began. "They told us Luke saw you at the front window of your apartment with … binoculars?"

"They told you right," she said without compunction. "It's a very interesting neighborhood."

"Oh … I have no doubt," Wilson agreed silkily. He was obviously playing "devil's advocate" for House. "Have you been observing … long?"

Maggie smiled, getting into the spirit of the game. "Just about long enough," she said noncommittally.

"What does that mean?" House growled.

Maggie caught his eye and held it, not angrily, but with determination. "Gentlemen, why don't we come to the point? I'm an old broad … retired … in a strange city … no real friends … and way too much time on my hands. My late husband's binoculars sit there on my windowsill most of the time … and one day I got curious." It wasn't exactly a lie.

"If you're wondering what I've been up to, I'll tell you honestly … and most of it has nothing to do with what the McGruders might have told you."

She looked from one serious face to the other. They seemed a little puzzled, a little apprehensive.

"I created a fantasy world … populated by fantasy people I could see from my living room window. I gave them names … histories … jobs … families. I named Luke "Scooter", because that's what he did; he scooted."

"Luke has told us …" Wilson began.

"I know. He and his Dad and I had a chance to talk for a minute or two in the hallway outside Nancy's … sorry … _Suzanne's_ … apartment. Suzanne's name was 'Fancy Nancy', by the way. Silly, but fun. She's a pretty girl, and I'm glad she will be pretty again."

"I see."

House was letting Wilson do all the talking again. His blue eyes bored into her forehead like laser beams. "And Luke?"

"Oh yeah, 'Scooter'. I started watching him and his friends down in the street during his 'Soda-Can-and-Potato-Chip-Gang' days.

"And I saw _you!" _ She pointed an accusing forefinger directly at House's face, "lower the boom on him and his henchmen a couple of months ago. I also saw the way Scooter … uh …_ Luke_ … really loves the hell out of you now."

House frowned, unable to keep quiet any longer. "You were privy to that?"

"Uh huh. I was watching out the window when it happened."

"Niice!"

"Well, _I_ didn't think it was very nice! I saw them hurt you … and I was scared shitless for you!"

"You were?"

"Well, yes. I'm a nurse … and I couldn't figure out how a small bump like that could injure you so badly. But I figured it out after awhile. You have nerve damage, don't you? No strength in that leg. And chronic pain. Of _course_ they hurt you!"

House looked decidedly uncomfortable. He did not like to talk about this. He looked at her warily, considering. His answer was brief. "Yeah. Right on all counts."

"What are you taking for it?"

"Vicodin."

"Strong stuff! Now your hand is screwed up too … and you can't walk. Why don't you switch the cane to your other hand?"

"Old shoulder injury. Wouldn't work."

"You're pretty much _screwed_, huh?"

"Pretty much …" The corners of his mouth were finally lifting.

Maggie smiled back, and suddenly found that these two men … real _or_ fantasy … had become very important to her. Maybe they would become her first "real" friends in New Jersey. She hung her head for a few moments, then looked up at both of them in a shy manner that took about twenty years off her age.

"Would you like to know what _your_ names were?"

They looked at her with question marks in their eyes. Curiosity warring with trepidation.

They were just beginning to understand what she offered them. Free of charge. She could feel their affection for one another hanging in the air between them, and it gave her reason to wish for a fresh chance at a future of her own.

A _real_ one!

"You!" She pointed to Wilson of the chocolate eyes and soft voice. "Your name was 'Richard' … 'Richard the Lionhearted' … because you are, you know … and it's nice to see I was right. Every move he makes, you have his back. You keep him safe, and he _knows!_ And he knows _why!"_

Wilson smiled and dipped his head, letting the moppy bangs fall over his forehead in embarrassment. He was such a little _Geekledork!_

"And you!" She smiled at Gregory House's wonderfully animated face, and as she did so, set free the sweet fantasy surrounding his aura, allowing it to fade forever into the realm where dreams flew on the wings of Pegasus … and time stood still.

"You were 'Paul' … because if I had had a son, his name would have been 'Paul'. I would have been kind of proud if he'd been something like you. I hope the two of you don't mind, and I hope you're not offended. I saw what the two of you have … and someday I'd like to have it for myself again …"

Their smiles widened. House's eyes were sparkling. Part of it was pain.

"No. We don't mind." Wilson again. His gaze locked onto House's, and she could see the harmony that united them. "We're rather flattered, Maggie. Thanks."

"Sure," she said. "You're welcome. And for what it's worth, it might be nice if you held his hand and massaged it lightly between his fingers and _very_ lightly over the back … I imagine it's throbbing pretty badly by now …"

She did not say, although she was thinking it: _If you're gonna massage his behind, wait 'til I leave!_

They stared at her.

She grinned. "I can be trusted with a confidence, you know. I'm happy for both of you."

The air between the three of them cleared in that moment … forever.

xxxxxxx

They laughed like old friends as they retreated to the kitchen to share in the preparation of hot dogs on the indoor grill, frozen French fries in the oven, and Bush's honey baked beans simmering on a back burner.

And Budweiser beer. (They'd seen her tee shirt earlier and thought maybe …)

They were right!

They had supper in the kitchen and then retired, with fresh cans of beer, to the big living room with the sweet baby grand piano. Gregg promised to play for her once his hand had healed.

He and "Jimmy" sat comfortably the way she'd first seen them: snuggled up together on the couch. Wilson gently caressed Gregg's injured hand, and Gregg leaned back against him, drowsy and relaxed almost to the point of ecstacy.

Together, like old friends, they watched some boring TV and told some lame jokes about college days and co-workers at the hospitals in which they'd served.

Maggie spoke lovingly of Arthur and their home in Harrisburg. Jimmy confessed that he would be moving in with Gregg in the very near future.

Thank you Lord! 

They lifted their Budweiser cans together and drank to all those wonderful things …

Just like old … _real_ … friends.

The End

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49


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